


Rise of the Gargoyle

by ephemeralprince



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Development, Exposition, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mixed POV, Multi, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Pre-Gorillaz, Slice of Life, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10168589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralprince/pseuds/ephemeralprince
Summary: Starting back in 1996 with some adjustments to canon. Murdoc Niccals is a 21 year old musician and mechanic with goals to share his talent with the world, but familial responsibilities and struggles with past trauma are making things difficult to get off the ground. Stuart Pot is an 18 year old zombie aficionado and horror film junkie with a bit of a pill problem. A hobby keyboardist with talent for days; but headaches and mental struggles make him hesitant to embrace his potential. After meeting by chance one night and discovering the things they have in common, the two young men build off each other's strengths and weaknesses and become close friends with a shared future goal - to share their music with like-minded people from all over the UK (maybe the world??) and hopefully make a positive change in the process.Multichapter fic, hoping to span the lengths of Phase 0, 1, and 2; expanding on canon and also giving more depth to the characters lives and their struggles with mental illness, abuse, and queer narratives. Will have three distinct parts. Hoping to update once a month, and will most likely feature occasional illustration. So strap in, kids!! This is going to be a long ride :)





	1. The Beginning

 

_ He shows up at your home uninvited, when you are alone, and sweeps you away in a mess of hard liquor and white powdered haze. Fast cars, loud bass, and the blur of streetlamps come to a screeching halt, bodies pile out of seats and he leads you into the house, into the basement; where the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit and beer. He drags you to the rotting sofa under the window and pulls you into his arms, stroking your hair and laughing roughly at an off-colour joke with no discernible source. Needles. White powder. Somebody touches you, you don't know who - but it feels good. You keep silent and allow it until he swats them away, cursing and harsh. He's holding you again, and you can barely see him through the fog as you begin to drift... but when he speaks, you hear him clear as day. "Stick with me, kid. We're gonna be a band." His nails are in your scalp, but his words hit something within you and it sticks, even as your vision begins to tunnel. Everything you never wanted, but it's so goddamn tempting. You're too doped up to disagree. _

* * *

Autumn had come. The air was crisp with it as Stuart wandered the fairground, his sneakers crunching upon leaves and discarded popcorn as he walked. The wind picked up a little, swirling leaves and dust about his feet and smarting his hatless head, making him wince. _ Bad weather for it, _ he thought, plucking a cigarette from his breast pocket and pressing it to his lips, lighting it a moment after.  _ Gonna have'ta close the place down soon... _ The tip of his cigarette crackled orange as he inhaled, relishing the warmth that filled his lungs and the bittersweet tobacco flavour that burned itself onto his tongue. The second cigarette of the day; the second of his allotted four. He was going to have to do his best to savour it before heading back home or his mother would pitch a fit. There were certainly worse things he could be doing, but he would never remind her of that - there were quite a few of them that he'd already indulged in, and the risk of her discovering his other habits far outweighed any sense of satisfaction he could obtain by challenging her word. Besides; he ought to stop poisoning himself anyway...

Stu thrust his hand back into the pocket of his sports coat and continued on, focusing on his cig and eyeing the clouds thoughtfully. It was going to storm. The radio had crackled on about it that morning, which was another reason why the fair was closed today, aside from it being Sunday. Thunder and lightning had been forecast to hit Crawley pretty hard, and it wasn't worth the risk to run the ferris wheel or anything else. Which was disappointing, because it robbed Stuart of something to do with himself on such a dull, sleepy day. He supposed at the very least he could rent a movie, although there wouldn't be anyone to watch it with really.  _ Robert could come by, but he hates horror... and he'd want to get high... _ Which they couldn't really do, not at the Pot's house. And Stu really didn't feel like going to anyone else's place. The video idea was good though, and the rental was close enough to the route back home.

"Maybe they'll have somethin' good, Needful Things or whatever," Stu muttered, pleased with the idea. He put out the last of his cigarette and sniffled slightly, running his fingers through his shaggy light hair before heading back toward the entrance of the fairground. He'd grab himself a movie, some junk food, something veg for dinner, and just chill. It was the most he could do before Monday came round again.

* * *

_ "How's dad?" you ask, lighting your cigarette. Your throat feels raw, and the smoke burns when you inhale, but you hold your grimace and swallow your cough. He'll laugh if he sees, and you can't have it. You won't have it. You're leaning against the trunk of his rust-bucket car, parked outside the house with the basement of smoke. The nicotine calms the pounding you can feel in your skull, and with any luck it will mask the taste of bile lingering on your tongue. Hannibal snorts distastefully, and you steel yourself against the stench of sugar sweet vanilla as he exhales a drag from his cigarillo in your face. _

_ "Bastard son of a cunt; who cares how he is," he rasps, spitting dangerously close to your boots. You shift aside and shrug, taking another drag of your own smoke. The burning in your throat is going numb, a promising sign. There's a clamour from the house and a chorus of muffled curses, but he doesn't seem alarmed, so you try your best not to be either. "He's still alive, although we can always pray otherwise," Hannibal continues, grinning at you harshly before flicking ash against your jacket. He takes your free hand in his for a moment, and under the filth and grease on his fingers, you can still make out how much paler he is compared to you. A new tattoo: a swastika in the space between his thumb and forefinger, catches your eye and holds your attention; successfully distracting you as he puts his cigarillo out on the cuff of your jacket, damaging the soft black leather. _

_ He laughs as you shout in protest, shoving you roughly and making you drop your cigarette as you try to swat him away. Suddenly you're seeing stars, and you can still see them even as he leads you to the passenger's side and pushes your body into the seat. The car rumbles to life, and you watch the stars silently as the world becomes distant and you become lost within yourself. Dimly, you consider your aunt: worrying her way through communion, wondering where you've gone. But a voice beyond yourself chides that she'll be fine, she knows you're good, you can look after yourself. Besides, it's 1pm. You slept in late and woke up hungover, she's back home by now and frustrated as hell. There's no real fixing it; and that's all you can try to remember as the car fills and rumbles to life. You have no idea where you're going, but you know it won't be home... _

* * *

The credits rolled and flickered on Stu's tv, filling his room with a dim blue, gritty light. A bottle of painkillers sat open on his bedside table, and he clutched their missing lid in his hands as he slept; still hunched awkwardly in the position he'd been laying in to watch his movie. Takeout boxes; with the remnants of cheese pakoras, rice, and curried cauliflower littered the floor at the foot of his bed. Outside, the rain pounded steadily against his window, and every few minutes the sky would crack with lightning or the rumble of thunder. The storm had arrived as promised, and it had offered a perfect ambiance for Stu's film of choice, Psycho; a real classic. He had only made it about halfway through before drifting off, his stomach full and his head swimming in a pharmaceutical daze. He didn't hear when his mother came home and checked on him, switching the tv off and making sure he was properly covered and his curtains were closed. She cleaned the trash off his floor and kissed his forehead before leaving him again, sleeping soundly. By the time he woke up late for school the next day, he had slept a full 11 hours, although it made very little difference on how exhausted he felt. And for the next few days, it was the same old thing. Uneventful. Until Wednesday, that is.


	2. Crawley

It was raining. It had been for days. You sat alone in the driver’s seat, watching the water splash and run down your windshield, catching colour from the neon lights that surrounded the car park where your brother had left you. “ _Off to get food and cigs,”_ he’d said, although you’d just as soon have expected that to translate to liquor and pot, knowing Hannibal. Even if he was being honest, at best, his idea of food would be gas station sandwiches, donuts, and chips. Anything high in sugar and fat, and low on legitimate nutrition. It was a habit you’d both picked up from your father, but he had never managed to shake it. With that in mind, you glanced down at the floor of Hannibal’s station wagon and the plethora of empty crisp packets and candy wrappers that littered it. Your stomach growled in distress. You would have done pretty much anything for a nice hot meal; something meaty and spicy and fresh. Chicken tikka masala, or some of your aunt’s carnitas, pozole… anything really. You were making yourself ill from this processed garbage.

The radio was playing some awful 80s love ballad when the group finally returned fifteen minutes later to find you zoned out and sleepy in the front seat. You were dreaming about hot chicken tacos, freshly made with onions and peppers and dripping in salsa verde; when there was a sharp knock on your window, startling you upright. Hannibal was outside, smacking the car top to get your attention, his breath fuming out in wisps of smoke.

“Open the bloody door, kid!” he shouted, and you lost no time in leaning over to the passenger's side and flipping the lock. Sweaty, muggy bodies piled into the back seat; the car filled with the scent of dirt and damp cigarettes and you grimaced, rolling down your window. The rain had stopped, you saw, and the clean air wafting in was a wonderful change. You hadn’t actually realized how musty it had become in the car since you’d initially set out. A rustling of plastic brought your attention back to the car as Hannibal sat down beside you, tearing open another bag of salt and vinegar crisps and proceeding to eat them with his mouth open. You glanced back at the others, each busying themselves with their own bags of junk, tossing things back and forth occasionally with a sort of camaraderie that you knew you weren’t a part of. You looked back to your brother and frowned.

“Didja get anything for me?” you asked, and the hint of desperation in your tone disgusted you. Hannibal looked up and squinted, then grinned, reaching into his bag.

“‘Course I did, you stupid sod. You think I’d forget my baby brother?” he asked, chuckling. Something hard and heavy landed uncomfortably in your lap, and you inspected it with thinly veiled disappointment. A frozen burrito.

“Just like mum used to make,” Hannibal laughed, offering you a lecherous smirk before returning to his crisps.

“It’s ice cold.”

“Eh, must’ve forgotten to heat it up,” he said, shrugging. You set the burrito on the dashboard in hopes it might warm up a bit once you got back on the road. Hannibal leaned back in his chair and slammed his feet onto the dashboard, sending gravel and rainwater flying onto the windscreen from his worn doc martens. He rolled his window down and lit a cigarette, breathing heavy smoke out and into the night. There was a moment of tension between the two of you; you could see him watching you from the corner of his eye as he puffed away, and suddenly his hand darted out and he slapped the back of your head.

“Let’s get going, yeah?!” he spat, gesturing to the steering wheel in frustration. “Fuck’s sake man, I’d like to be in Crawley before fucking October so let’s kick it! Fucking hell.”

“Piss off,” you grumbled, turning the key in the ignition and glaring at him before turning your eyes to the road. The second you stopped looking at him you felt his hands in your hair, ruffling it harshly as he laughed.

“There’s a good boy,” he hissed, taking another drag. “What kinda pansy ass shit is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning forward and turning the knob on the radio. Static filled the space between you and you sighed.

“I think it’s just a local station, Hanni - ”

“Fuck that gay shit, man,” he spat, switching the cassette player on. Heavy metal blared from the speakers, some band whose name you didn’t know and you would never be able to read. Gruff shouts of approval came from the back seat and Hannibal sat back again, settling in comfortably with a new cigarette in his hand. You tried to ignore the smell and the pain in your stomach and focused on the road, driving further into the night and farther from home.

* * *

 It was 2am when Hannibal finally told you to pull over, and your eyes were heavy and tired from staring down the highway. It had rained more, and your focus had been completely given to avoiding hydroplaning and struggling to maintain a clear head. Hannibal’s friends had made a half-assed attempt to hotbox the car before passing out one by one in the backseat, and the fumes from their pot had given you a terrible headache. Hannibal must have noticed this, because he blew his smoke away from you as you pulled off the road. You heard the flick of his lighter as he lit another joint, your stomach turning from the smell. It must have been cheap stuff this time; you knew Hannibal had just about reached the end of his wallet and you had never smelled cannabis this rancid. He took a grimacing drag and you sat in silence for a moment, listening to the soft drum of rain on the windscreen. When your brother finally spoke, you barely registered his voice.

“Hop in the back, yeah? Get some sleep, kid,” Hannibal huffed, and there was a touch of compassion in his voice that took you aback. You looked to the backseat of the car, considering his offer _(never this nice to you, ought to take advantage of it),_ then back to the joint between Hannibal’s fingers. You shook your head with a shrug and began to turn the key in the ignition, but Hannibal caught your hand as the car choked to life. His eyes were fierce when you looked back at him, and he nodded to the backseat sternly once more, his fingers digging slightly into your skin.

The only one still awake in the backseat was Charlie, incidentally the only one you could tolerate being around. He nodded at the spot beside him and smiled at you in a way that was almost comforting, and you gave in, unbuckling and hopping out of the car. For a moment you had a sickly vision of Hannibal gunning it and leaving you stranded in the countryside, but of course it didn’t happen and you were stupid for considering it. He would never do something like that to you. Drag you away from home in the middle of the night, maybe; force you to drive him on a winding journey of bars and pit stops and drug induced mapping, perhaps. But he would never leave you stranded like this. The fact you had even thought of it just showed what a mistrustful ass you were.

The seat beside Charlie was warm and inviting, Charlie himself even more so. Charming and handsome, Charlie played electric guitar and sang backup for your brother’s ramshackle band. He let his hair grow longer and softer than Hannibal’s, and it sat in blonde tipped waves, hanging occasionally into his stark grey eyes. Not many piercings; a little less skinhead, a little more punk - he wore acid washed denim and a number of rings and his presence added a softer edge to Hannibal’s harsh, grotty lineup. _He was pretty. Pretty in a way that made your gut twist, and he was 7 years your senior. He gets you hot. Admit it._

But you wouldn’t admit it, not then, not ever. Not even when you sat down beside him and let him run his fingers through your hair as you dozed, and the car took off with a cough and a lurch. The smell of smoke and spilled beer made your drowsy, and you felt yourself spacing out as you pressed forward on your bullet train to nowhere. Discreet kisses were buried into your hair; the sensation was too pleasant to pass up. You fell asleep with Charlie’s arm around your shoulder and his heartbeat in your ear in a stupidly intimate and domestic manner. You would forget about this by the morning. There were a lot of things on the trip that you forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 is already mostly finished so that should come fairly soon. Comments give me life so please let me know what you think!! And if Hannibal seems like a creepy fuck, that's because he is.


	3. The Emporium

By Wednesday the rain had finally stopped, leaving Crawley soggy and damp despite how hard the sun had tried to make the puddles disappear. It had been crisp and chilly when Stu had first biked down to the shop, bundled up with a dark cable knit sweater over his work clothes; but now as he watched the sun setting from behind the counter inside, it almost looked sort of pleasant. Much more pleasant than the interior of the shop, at any rate. Customers had come to nearly a complete stop by five o’clock, and by now it was almost nine. The store had already been faced. Stu had taken to dusting the instruments on display until he was dizzy from staring at strings and keys, and had finally taken to his most common pastime for quiet nights: standing and staring. He found himself indulging in this  more and more frequently now with summer reaching its end. Nobody wanted to stay for very long now that school had started and the weather had turned. Most people who did stop in knew exactly what they needed ahead of time, and the rain had made everyone cranky and unresponsive when Stu tried to engage them in small-talk. The storm had gotten to everyone.

Even now, Norm, the store’s owner and namesake, could be heard grumbling and swearing softly in the back where he was organizing stock. He’d been back there for nearly two hours, finally getting fed up enough with the silence of the store to leave Stu to watch the front on his own. Not that Stu minded. He and Norm had formed a fairly strong bond over his first two weeks of employment, and he was proud to have been given a spare set of keys after the first month in. Norm was a decent guy; he trusted Stu. And he didn’t get mad when there was nothing to do. The worst he could imagine happening with Stu left alone was that the boy might lose track of himself and forget to greet someone, or start picking at the counter. Which was exactly what Stu was doing when the last customers of the day arrived.

Stu could hear them well before they came in; a loud clamour of yelling and blaring rock and roll filled the lot outside to announce their arrival, and a sickening squeak of tires made Stu jump to attention behind the counter. Car doors slammed horrendously. There was a scuffling of gravel like someone had fallen, and then all at once the door was thrown open, sending the bell above it into jingling hysterics. Four or five men piled into the shop, followed closely by an aura of stale beer and pot smoke. The aroma made Stu cringe; it had been a good while since he’d had his last joint, but even he could tell that there was something rancid about whatever these men had been smoking. He swallowed his discomfort as best as he could, taking a deep breath before greeting them.

“Hey guys, anything I can help you with?” he asked brightly, trying his best to seem friendly. The shortest of the group turned back to him and sneered lecherously with a laugh.

“Sod off, sweetheart,” he said, offering a lewd hand gesture before following his companions to the wall of guitars and strings. Stuart’s gut flipped uncomfortably and he shuddered as he watched them walk away. Immediately he considered calling Norm to the front to help keep an eye on things; but before he could reach the stockroom the doorbell was ringing again, and he turned back to see who was coming.

The last member of the entourage was a man closer to Stu’s age, with curly dark hair and olive brown skin. Dressed in black jean and leather, he was short and wiry and noticeably free of piercings, setting him even further apart from the rest of the group. Stu probably wouldn’t have even considered him to be aligned with the other men if not for the silence that accompanied his presence in the store. _He must have turned the car radio off before coming in_. There was also a distinct lack of pot or beer smell surrounding him, and as Stu watched him pocket his keys it occurred to him that he must have been the evening’s designated driver. A quick look at the man’s eyes (sharp, clear, and free of bloodshot) and Stu immediately relaxed, switching gears back into customer service mode and greeting the newcomer with a smile.

“Hullo! How’re you doing tonight?” he asked, walking back to his place behind the counter. The man appeared a bit startled at his greeting, but as he approached the counter to respond, Stu could see the tired circles under his eyes and adjusted his tone to something a bit more calm; hopefully less intimidating.

“Hey, duck,” the man said softly, smiling up at Stu and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “‘m good, how ‘bout yourself?”

“Tired,” Stu replied honestly with a laugh. “It’s been really slow today, I didn’t think anyone else was even gonna stop in before closing.” He nodded his head toward the far end of the store, where the other men could be heard talking among themselves at varying volumes. “Are you with them?”

“Pfft, I guess you could say that,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “That’s just my brother and his stupid ‘band’,” he punctuated this with air quotes. “I’m just driving them around since they’re too sloshed to do it themselves.”

“Mm, I had a feeling,” Stu conceded with a nod. “Have you been on the road long then?”

“A few days. We started in Stoke, but my brother’s trying to get this whole mess off the ground, so we’ve been hitting a lot of clubs and music stores to see if we can gain any traction or find any good sound. Or something, I guess. The bits where he’s lucid enough to understand are sorta few and far between; I’ve mostly just been stopping and starting the wagon as requested.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Stu said positively. The other snorted in reply.

“It’s a fucking awful one then, if that’s what it is,” he laughed. “s’been torture as far as I care. All I’ve eaten in the past few days are crisps and a frozen burrito.”

Stu laughed loudly at this, though it occurred to him later that perhaps he wasn’t supposed to. But the man seemed to appreciate his humor, watching Stu with a smile as he struggled to regain his composure.  Shaking his head, Stu leaned back on the shelf behind the counter, folding his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side.

“Where did you even get--”

“At a gas station,” the other interrupted. “It was bean and cheese. I had to thaw it out on the dashboard.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Oh trust me, it was.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. “I think this is our last stop though, so hopefully I can get back home soon. It’ll be a while before they get their shit together enough for any of this to be successful, if you ask me. And I have to get back to work.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Stu asked. He was enjoying having someone to talk to on such a dull night; and this guy was pleasant to listen to. His voice had a gruff but soft quality, and his speech almost came out in a lilt; words punctuated with pauses and hums and strange emphasis on unusual consonants. It was like listening to an internal monologue; absolutely captivating. And the way his eyes widened when Stu pressed him about his job made Stu think that perhaps he’d been needing to talk to someone for a while.

“I’m a mechanic,” he said, grinning. “I work at an auto repair shop back in Stafford. Mostly fixing dents and brakes, changing tires and oil, all that sort of thing. I’ve always liked putting things back together; seeing how they work. Taking them apart is fun too.”

“That sounds like fun!” Stu said enthusiastically. “My dad used to do the same kind of thing, before he hurt his back. Now he manages the fairground here. But he still loves fixing things when he gets a chance. He’s fixed our telly, and he and I like to tinker around with old keyboards - oh right! I forgot to ask if you needed help finding anything! I’m so sorry--”

“It’s alright kid, don’t worry about it!” the other laughed, and Stu dropped his panic quickly. “I’m just… what’s our name?” he asked, searching for Stu’s name-tag.

“It’s Stuart. Sometimes Stu. Sometimes Stu-pot. It works, cos my last name is Pot. I - um - I guess I forgot my name-tag today.”

“Eh, it’s fine. I’m Murdoc,” the other said with a nod. Out of habit, Stu thrust his hand over the counter to be shaken, and Murdoc took it awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you, Stu.”

“Likewise, Murdoc,” Stu said, retrieving his hand with a smile. “Is there anything I can help you find? Do you play anything? Or maybe you’re just the driver? I mean, I don’t mean to say you’re _just_ the driver, but I mean I suppose that might’ve sounded a bit harsh…”

Murdoc laughed, shaking his head as Stu stammered. He liked this kid. He had a good energy. It was refreshing to speak to someone so friendly and positive after the three days of dazed and trippy, smoke saturated Hell his brother had put him through. Nice to get a little breather.

“I’m not offended, duck, I promise,” he began, straightening up and unzipping his coat a bit. “I do play - I’m a bassist. I think my brother would like me to play for _him,_ but between you an’ me I’m not sure I’m really gonna. Maybe for a little bit, if they get their shit together.” He shrugged casually, trying to appear much more aloof on the topic than he truly felt. In truth the idea of Hannibal’s “band” was giving him one hell of a headache.

“Do you need anything for your bass?” Stu asked, his tone taking on a scripted quality. “We’ve got strings and pedals, polish, tuning gear… I think we have some amps and things too if you’re looking for that sort of thing. I could show you if you like--”

“Nah Stuart, it’s okay. I’m not really looking to shop right now. But thank you for offering.”

“Yeah sure,” Stu replied, feeling a flush creep into his cheeks and ears. It was so easy to slip back into sales mode; especially when the store had made so little in a day. But Murdoc smiled at him reassuringly, and he didn’t seem put off by his sudden formality.

“Do you play anything?” he urged, trying to keep the ball rolling. Stu nodded fervently, and the sudden animation he seemed to brim with at the question was… endearing, in a way.

“I play keyboards!” Stu said proudly, gesturing to the wall display behind him. His left hand began to tremble slightly as he spoke. “I’m mostly self taught y’know; my dad and I have been experimenting with sound ever since I was really small. He used to bring home old battered synths and things and we’d put them back together and polish them up and see what we could get from ‘em. I got my first new Casio for my twelfth birthday, but I still have a buncha the old tinkered ones around. For fun, y’know. I used to play the piano at my Gran’s too, when I was little; I liked the sound and the weight of the keys, but I like playing keyboards because you can get so many different tones - they make such good sounds. Bloopy sounds, yeah? Like a sci-fi or something, Doctor Who or whatever. Real futuristic and spacey…” Stu paused here, seeming lost in thought for a moment, his hand still shaking. All at once he stopped, placing both hands on the counter steadily and snapping back to a calm attention. “It’s one of my favourite hobbies. Music.”

“No kidding!” Murdoc said, grinning up at him. Stu’s enthusiasm was so raw it was infectious. The way his entire self seemed to light up with excitement was positively electric. “You said you’re self taught; did you ever take lessons?”

“Mm, only for a little bit when I was… ten I think?” A shadow seemed to fall over his features and he frowned slightly, scratching his head. “I… I wasn’t good at theory. Couldn’t read the notes worth shit. All the paperwork stressed me out a lot; gave me a headache. It felt… clinical. Stuffy. Like a maths class.” Stu nodded to himself, pleased with his analogy. He looked up at Murdoc to check if he was following and was glad to see it seemed he was.

“I quit the lessons a year in,” he continued proudly. “I play by ear now. Anything I can get my ears on. I like New Order and The Clash. And I learn Supertramp and The Who for my dad.”

“That’s impressive!” Murdoc said, and the admiration in his tone was concise. “Playing by ear is a bloody talent, kid, do you ever play publicly?”

“Pfft, oh no! Lord no. Just for me. I don’t think I’m really good enough to perform...”

“Have you ever wanted to try?” Murdoc urged, and Stu was surprised at how desperate he sounded. He considered for a moment, thinking hard.

“Well… I suppose, if there was an opportunity I might… have a go… But at most I’d probably just be making supportive beeps to start with.”

Murdoc nodded quickly, his mind racing. “Supportive beeps are good! Anything would be better than Mark, I don’t even think he knows chords.” Stu nodded, his fingers beginning to fidget again, tapping against each other at the tips while he spoke.

“My mum says I have a nice voice too,” he said softly, blushing. “I suppose I could give it a shot. But… um…”

“Yeah?”

“Are we talking about… with them?” Stu asked, nodding toward the rest of the group anxiously. Murdoc followed his gaze, frowning at his brother’s friends. He’d all but forgotten the nuisances were even there.

“Look, Stu,” he started, turning back to him and focusing his eyes on the younger man’s steadily. He almost hadn’t noticed what a pretty brown they were until now; he could have gotten lost in them. If this wasn’t all so important. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with them, exactly, but I can’t see it lasting for very long. But that doesn’t mean _I’m_ giving up. If I could find a few good people with a compatible sound, I think we could really have something! I’d at least like a chance to _try_.”

Stu nodded, and there was silence for a moment. The clock above the checkout seemed to tick louder while he mulled it over, studying Murdoc’s face. The idea was tempting, but it was also a bit nerve wracking. It had been nice to talk to someone closer to his age about music though, and Murdoc seemed nice enough. Stu hadn’t even had a chance to ask him about his own musical influences yet. Perhaps that would be a good deciding factor… He was just about to bring it up when the clock above him chimed suddenly, announcing the half hour and reminding Stu that they would be closing soon.

“Shit, I gotta pack up,” he said, looking at Murdoc who seemed just as startled by the sudden noise. “Norm and I lock the doors at ten to. I’m sorry.”

Murdoc’s face fell but he hurriedly masked his disappointment with a smile and a shrug. “Eh, don’t worry about it, Stu-Po--”

“Do you have a number I can reach you at?” Stu blurted out, flustered. Murdoc blinked, clearly taken aback by the proposition, and Stu could have sworn he saw a smudge of crimson pass over his tan cheeks.

“Of course!” he said, his voice cracking nervously. “Do you have a pen?”

Stu nodded, passing him a black ballpoint pen from the cup behind the counter. He was beginning to print off a slip of receipt paper when he felt his hand being tugged, and before he could protest he saw Murdoc scribbling down his phone number on his left palm. There was something shockingly intimate about the gesture, and after Murdoc finished signing his name they looked at each other, both seeming to process what a bold move it had been. Stu was the first to laugh, covering a crooked smile with his free hand. It was a good icebreaker, and when Murdoc joined in with his own snuffling sort of chuckle the tension disappeared. The space between them felt comfortable and familiar somehow.

“At the very least, it might be nice to have someone to jam with a bit,” Stu said finally, running his clean hand through his hair, studying the writing on the other as he spoke.

“Yeah. Hell yeah. I’d really like that,” Murdoc agreed happily. “You can call me whenever, okay? Just not on Sunday or Monday nights. I gotta drive my aunt to Mass.”

“That’s fine,” Stu said. “I’ll remember.”

“And I’m sorry my writing is shit; hope you can actually read it.”

“It’s no worse than mine.”

“Alright,” Murdoc relented, shifting awkwardly. A silence formed between them again, but it was a good kind this time, buzzing with possibility. Stu took a moment to study Murdoc more fully, still puzzling over how he could have found himself assimilated into such a motley crew. He didn’t fit with the rest of the group at all. He must have noticed Stu staring, because he shuffled back a bit, mussing his hair anxiously under his gaze. A gold cross swung across his chest at the motion, and the reflection from it caught Stu's eye. A proper catholic crucifix, turned upside down and hanging from a matching gold chain. The bottom where the chain attached looked damaged and whittled, as though it had been done post purchase. Perhaps at home. With a rusty screwdriver.

"Your cross is upside down," Stu remarked with a puzzled expression, and Murdoc laughed.

"Yeah, don't I fuckin' know it," he said with a touch of pride in his voice. This didn't help answer any of Stu's questions. He didn’t have time to ask for an explanation though, before the sounds of Murdoc's companions noisily making their way back to the front of the store reached his ears and interrupted him. The shortest of the group approached Murdoc first, nudging him roughly, and now Stu noticed the slight resemblance between the two.

"There ain't nothing worth buying here, Muds," he said gruffly. "Take us home, yeah?"

Murdoc frowned slightly and backed away at the other man's touch, but he said nothing. Instead, he took out his keys and offered Stu an apologetic nod before heading toward the door. No sooner had the bell rung when Stu noticed something jutting awkwardly out of the shortest man's back pocket. He recognized it immediately as one of the packs of guitar strings from the store, and he cleared his throat loudly to get Murdoc's attention.

"You plannin' on paying for those?" he asked as casually as he could, motioning toward the lifted goods. Murdoc's skin grew pale instantly and he stomped his foot sharply.

"Hannibal! For fuck's sake, give the kid back whatever the hell it is you grabbed!" he shouted angrily, glaring up at the other. Hannibal growled, snatching the strings from his back pocket and chucking them violently in Stu’s direction before shoving past Murdoc and out the door. The others followed after him quietly, an anxious scuffling of dirty boots and bad energy. It was only a minute before the sound of heavy metal flooded the room from outside, followed by a collection of forceful car door slams. Murdoc stood uncomfortably in the doorway, biting his lip. Finally he pulled away from the door and back into the shop, cursing softly under his breath. He fished around in his pockets and came up with a handful of five pound notes and coin, slamming them to the counter and looking ashamed.

"Keep the change, Stuart," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry."

“Jesus Murdoc, don’t worry about it. It wasn’t you,” Stu said, passing him the package of strings. From outside, someone could be heard screaming obscenities, followed by loud jeering cries of Murdoc’s name. The car horn honked and Murdoc bristled with anger across the counter. He picked up the strings, stuffing them in his inner breast pocket and smiling stiffly.

“Only call if you feel comfortable, alright?” he said. Stu nodded, smiling back.

“I will, don’t worry. Best of luck with the road trip, yeah?”

Murdoc laughed, cringing as he heard his name screamed again. “Thanks Stuart. I’ll see you ‘round.” He waved on his way out the door, and Stu shouted a goodnight after him as the door swung shut, sending the bell ringing one last time. Stu hopped the counter to lock the door, watching as the station wagon pulled out of the lot in a screech of rubber, over the hill and gone all at once. The only signs that he had been there at all were a two-pound tip, the smell of leather and good tobacco, and the writing on Stu’s palm.

* * *

 “You fucking moron!” Hannibal hissed once you were out of view of the store, and he smacked the back of your head roughly, making the car lurch as your hands slipped. You slammed the breaks as fast as you could, sitting up and glaring at him.

“Piss off!” you shouted, rubbing the back of your head. “You’re the one going about nicking things - I _told_ you I had money! Satan’s sake, Hannibal; this car is loaded with pot and beers and fuck knows what else - you think this is a good time to get arrested??”

“I needed those strings, Mud! And that stupid blue ponce wasn’t paying attention anyway, he deserved to lose out.”

“Was paying enough attention to notice the strings in your pocket…”

“Sod off!”

“I _bought_  them!” you screamed, and the car went dead silent. You were sure Stuart would have heard you all the way back at the shop, you’d gotten so loud. Hannibal froze, staring at you with his muddy brown eyes, and you found yourself noticing how tired he looked for the first time in your life. A haze seemed to pass over his face, sobering him, and he scratched at his crooked sideburns absently, blinking.

“You what?” he asked, rubbing his buzzed head and sending a cascade of dirt and dandruff into his lap. You sighed, reaching into your coat pocket and passing the package of strings to him. You watched as his eyes scanned over them dazedly, before looking up to you and nodding.

“Thanks Muds.”

“Yeah, whatever… don’t worry about it,” you mumbled, turning your eyes back to the road and adjusting your seat belt. You saw Charlie shuffling uncomfortably in the rear-view mirror and met eyes with his reflection. A look was exchanged, and without you having to press, Charlie reached up and patted your brother on the shoulder firmly, gesturing behind himself.

“C’mon Hanni, why don’t you sit back here for a bit. I’ll swap you.”

Hannibal didn’t need much more encouragement than that; nodding slowly before clambering out the passenger side and switching out with Charlie in the back. When Charlie came to join you at the front, you felt the atmosphere of the car shift to a pressured calm and you finally relaxed; rolling down your window as you started down the road again. You had a splitting headache, but Charlie’s presence made the drive manageable. And with Hannibal sedated in the back, you could call the shots. The radio was turned down low and to local stations, and without the rambling directions from your brother the road took you quickly towards home. You were done for now, with this stuffy car and the yelling and the drugs. You needed you home and your aunt and your bed; you needed a fresh change of clothes. And to hell with this mess of a miserable band - this was nothing like you might have wanted. You were done with Hannibal's stupidity and mistreatment; you deserved better. You could  _do_ better. And your gut twsited with pride and excitement as that sank in. You  _could_ do better. And maybe, with Stuart's help, you really would.

* * *

 Clouds had begun to roll in again slowly as Stu left the shop, waiting for Norm to lock up. He had managed to let Norm know what had happened without causing any drama, and he was glad to be going home. After declining an invitation to stay with Norm for a smoke, Stu hopped on his bike and pedaled his way up the hill and into town. He found himself favouring his left hand as he rode down the street; careful not to rub away the number written there. He supposed he would have to copy it down on a sheet of paper once he got home, and the idea made him chuckle - some random bloke’s number tucked away in his dresser. What would his mother think? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time it had happened in some form or another. Stu had been offered numbers on other occasions as well, but those had usually been for scam accounting jobs, or roadie help from seedy old men who reeked of tobacco and punctuated their invitations with suggestive winks. They slid business cards across his counter with long dirty nails and smirked at him when he read them their totals. They called him pet names when he took their bills and chuckled when he became flustered.  Those were all numbers he tore.

 _But this is the first time it’s been a band,_ Stu thought, pausing at an intersection and counting the seconds until the light changed in his favor. A band might actually be worth his time. And once school let out the next summer… _I’ll have nothing to do at all. Just working at the shop and the fairground. Everyone else will be leaving for college… It’d be nice to have a project to work on._ And Murdoc really had seemed nice. Stu was pleased with the idea of seeing him again, provided the others were absent. He hadn’t made Stu feel uncomfortable or unsafe. It was nice to feel excited for something for a change; it seemed like it had been forever since Stu had felt this high. If making music was something that could help him savour this feeling...

“It might be worth it,” he said quietly to himself as he pulled onto his block. The lights in the  Pot’s townhouse were all off except for one, in the kitchen, and Stu smiled as he steered his way carefully into the garage. His mother would have left him dinner, his father would be in bed; and depending on the sporadic nature of his mother’s work schedule, she would either be sound asleep beside him or  making her way down the the hospital right then. The presence of the family car in the garage pointed toward the former, and Stu did his best to be extra quiet as he unlocked the front door and made his way into the house. A plate of roasted vegetables, beans and toast were waiting for him in the fridge, and he picked at them sleepily for a minute before wrapping them back up and heading to bed. There was too much to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, so much for cranking this out sooner rather than later. I'm sorry about the wait. I actually wrote the rough draft and basis for this scene last October so in a way it /was/ ready for reading, but it needed major editing and revisions. It was the first thing I had sat down to write in years when I jotted it down and my writing has already improved so much over the last few months I knew you all deserved better. I hope this suffices. As always, thank you for reading and appreciating my work!! Your feedback keeps me going :)
> 
> -Shaun


	4. Telephone

It was after one o’clock by the time you finally reached your house. Charlie had taken over the wheel after a pit stop half-way through, and you had entertained yourself by gazing out the window at the stars and letting your mind drift, cigarette in hand. The ride had been quiet. Hannibal had fallen asleep in the back seat, and there was a sense in the stuffy air of the wagon that something unheard of had transpired. Nobody was comfortable. Your brain was torn between  _ (shoulda struck him back, shoulda shouted more, shouldn’t’ve bought those strings;)  _ and more loudly  _ (shouldn’t’ve screamed like that, should be more respectful, made everyone uncomfortable, so stuck up, need to relax, smoke a joint a joint a joint a joint have fun loosen up you’re awful terrible terribly awful you worthless sack- disrespectful twat that’s your brother he’s your brother you’re an asshole--)  _  Nobody seemed to be able to agree. You were so busy trying to sort out your own thoughts from the static that you didn’t notice at first that you were parked outside your aunt’s house, and Charlie had to nudge you to bring you back to earth.

“Hey blud, you’re home,” he said, nodding toward the house. You unbuckled yourself silently and climbed out of the passenger’s seat, your legs numb and tingling as you stood and stretched. Someone roused Hannibal from the backseat, and he stumbled out as you started to leave, running his filthy fingers through your equally filthy hair. He pressed a drunken kiss to your jawline, jabbing you with stubble and making you cringe in discomfort. He told you to call him soon. You avoided his eyes as he climbed back into the car. You waited until Charlie started the engine again and pulled back onto the road before you even began to consider entering the house; watching as the station wagon, with it’s matte black spray painted finish and tapestry of keyed expletives, rolled down the street and out of view.

Taking a deep breath, you turned toward your home and tried to ignore the memories your current situation was trying its damndest to resurface. Your head felt muddy and cluttered; you needed a drink. A nice stiff glass of whiskey and a hot shower, a good sleep in your own bed. The air was so much fresher outside of the car that it almost made your head spin. You dusted yourself off and walked up the steps to your door, heeled boots clicking on the concrete path. As you pulled out your keys, you noted the darkness and silence in the house and felt your gut twist.  _ (No one waiting up for you, you twat.) _ But you were glad for that. You didn’t think you’d be able to handle any worry or interaction right now, and you hated to think of your aunt staying up this late just on your account. The worry she was probably already feeling was more than enough; if she was alright enough to have fallen asleep without you coming back, then things would be okay. You didn’t want her to see you like this anyway...

The smell of chili and rice hit you in a wave of warmth as you opened the door, making your knees buckle and your heart ache. You hadn’t realized the gravity of your homesickness until that moment, and the relief you felt to be home and safe once more was overwhelming. As quietly as you could, you slipped out of your shoes and left them by the door before walking softly toward the kitchen. Your stomach growled painfully as you checked the fridge to find the usual; bread, butter, milk, eggs, vegetables, and lime soda, among other things. There was a dish with your name on it, and when you peeled back the lid you found the source of the smell you had realized upon entering the house. Chili black beans and rice with peppers and a sprinkle of cheese. Just the way you liked it. You wasted no time in grabbing a fork and knife from the cupboard and quietly setting your snack on the counter, eating your leftovers with two slices of buttered bread. The struggle to stay quiet as you stuffed yourself ravenously was frustrating, to say the least, but you made it halfway through your rice without causing too much disturbance and had everything back in its proper place within 10 minutes. A lime soda washed everything down. You stifled a belch against the back of your hand and let yourself bask in the afterglow of nutrition for a few moments until you felt exhaustion hit you forcefully and your clarity started to slide.

Something in you seemed to flip, a switch to autopilot, and in the safety of your aunt’s home you let yourself succumb to routine as your mind seemed to slip into sleep. Now that safety had been established, other needs began to surface - you were filthy; you needed a wash, you needed to pee, you needed to rest. Preferably in that order. You screwed the cap onto the remainder of your soda and put it back in the fridge before making your way up the stairs to the bathroom down the hall. You could hear your aunt snoring softly as you tiptoed past her bedroom, careful not to make even the slightest noise - she was a light sleeper. When you reached the bathroom, you shut and locked the door before turning the light on, gave it a moment, and when you were sure she hadn’t awoken you turned on the fan and got to work.

You started the water, undressing as you waited for the heat to kick in. A quick glance at the mirror showed you just how dirty you really were; dust and sweat gathered in gritty trails behind your ears and down your neck. Before the mirror went blank with steam you spotted a number of bruises on your arms and sides; purple and green splotches in the brown of your skin that you could neither recall nor identify. A sudden sickness filled your gut, as though you were looking at something you weren’t meant to see, and the figure in the mirror shifted vulnerably as you removed your trousers and briefs. Pulling back the curtain, you resisted the temptation to look back at the retreating form in the mirror. Privacy was a priority. You would leave the figure alone for now. The shower would be a safer space.

The water ran grey for the first couple minutes of your shower, filth and soap intermingled and were swept down the drain as your muscles relaxed to the warmth of the water. You washed your face and hair slowly, savouring the heat, and when every inch of you had been cleansed, your hands met below your waist and you touched yourself briefly, surprised by the tension that had built up within you. Relief and release hit you in a wave within minutes, and you hummed to yourself as you finished, rinsing once more before switching the water off and stepping out of the shower. You dried your hair and headed to your room to change, carrying your dirty clothes with you. Slipping into a dark blue tracksuit and a fresh pair of briefs, you sat on your bed for a moment to gather your thoughts. The smell of fabric softener hit you and all at once you began to cry; swiping at your eyes with your sleeve before you collected yourself. A flask of whiskey was hidden in a shoe box beneath your bed, along with countless other things your aunt pretended weren’t there, and you scrambled for it clumsily in the light from your open window.

The cap of the flask squeaked slightly as you turned it open, and a moment later your throat and chest filled with a pleasant numbing; a burning sensation you had needed desperately. Your head seemed to instantly clear, and as you twisted the cap back on and put your flask back in its place you noted the heat blooming in your chest alongside the feeling of soft fleece against your scrubbed skin. All at once you were very tired. The yelling in your head had stopped for the first time in what seemed like years, and the empty space felt safe and secure. You could rest now; the storm had passed for the time being. You barely had time to crawl under your blankets before you were drifting off, your head sinking deep into your pillow and the sound of your clock ticking meeting your ears; the last thing you were conscious of before you fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

You awoke the next morning to the sun streaming through your curtains and into your eyes, making you wince. You nearly forgot where you were for a minute, panic setting in quickly before you noticed your possessions scattered around you and remembered that you were finally back home. Hunger struck you hard a moment later, responding to the smell of sausages and coffee rising up from the kitchen. Sitting and stretching, you tossed your blankets to the side and slid out of bed, wiggling your bare toes in the shag carpet of your bedroom floor. You stood quietly, careful not to make the floor creak as you went to your window to look outside. The clouds had cleared for the first time in weeks, and the trees were orange and red with autumn against the cool blue sky. The air was crisp. You felt alive. ( _ And as long as Sophia doesn’t kill you, you might keep that feeling for the rest of the day),  _ a snide voice whispered in your ear, but you ignored it. You were certain your aunt would be more understanding than that. She usually was when things like this happened. Not that they happened often, of course. But you knew if you could bullshit your way through the initial interrogation you would be a free man by the end of the week and life would go on. It always did.

The whiskey under your bed beckoned you as you returned to fix your blankets, but you ignored its temptation; clear headed enough to know that going downstairs smelling of liquor was not in your best interest. Instead, you opted to leave your room quietly, shutting the door behind yourself and heading to the bathroom to freshen up before breakfast; running a comb through your unruly black hair and even going to far as brushing your teeth before you were satisfied with the look of the man staring back at you from the space behind the mirror. He looked clean cut and kind, if anything he could use a shave, but besides that he was someone you felt your aunt could love. Or forgive, anyway.

Biting your tongue and rolling up your sleeves, you left the bathroom and headed down the stairs towards the kitchen, listening for any sounds of unrest and clutching the cold wood of the banister as you walked. Things seemed normal enough. Your aunt was standing at the stove, her back to you when you peered into the room. Gently, you stepped over the threshold from carpet to linoleum, your bare feet padding softly along the tile patterned floor.

“Good morning, Murdoc,” she said, keeping her back to you as you entered the kitchen.

“ _ Buenos días, tía, _ ” you replied, and she shot you A Look. It had been a long time since she had learned to distinguish your use of Spanish as a prime method of kissing ass, and she wasn’t buying into it anymore.

“You found your leftovers in the fridge?” she asked, turning the sausages she was frying over. Even from where you were standing, you could see the golden crust they were getting and your mouth began to water.

“Yeah I, uh, ate some last night when I got home.”

“I saw,” she said. “I found your crumbs on the counter this morning.”

There was humour in her tone when she spoke, but it was lost on you under the weight of her potential disappointment. You felt your face heat up and you began to fidget slightly, suddenly feeling very vulnerable in the middle of the room, but when she turned back to and saw the look on your face,  her smile softened.

“Come get your coffee,  _ mijo _ , I’m not angry.”

Cautiously, you unwound yourself and stepped forward, finding your favourite mug on the counter already filled to the brim with coffee and cream. Just as you liked it. Sophia rested her hand on your arm, right above the elbow as you picked up your mug and took a drink. She gave you a soft squeeze, looking up at you in love and worry. She was shorter than you and darker, and her black hair rested below her shoulders in soft waves. Your mother’s sister; you could barely recall what your mother herself had looked like, but there were photographs in the dusty album under the tv table, pictures of her when she was young and before she had met your father. There were no pictures after the fact and you knew why. Sophia was the only link to her that you had, and she had tried her best to fill the void. And you would love her forever for it.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,  _ tía _ ,” you said, and you were. The guilt had consumed you for the majority of the stupid trip with your brother, and you waited to be forgiven.

“I’m just happy you’re home,” Sophia replied with a shake of her her head, releasing your arm and returning her attention to the stove. “Grab me some plates and then go sit down. I promise I won’t be angry with you.”

You nodded, setting your coffee down for a moment to do as she said. Plates on the counter, forks and knives for good measure, and you went to sit down with your coffee.

“The shop called,” Sophia said, pulling bread and butter from the fridge and setting them down beside the toaster. Your heart sank as you took your regular seat at the little round kitchen table, picking at the tablecloth nervously.

“What did they say?” you asked, dreading what the answer would be. Your aunt turned back to you and shook her head, leaning back on the counter.

“They said you missed a shift. That it’s unlike you to do so without calling. I told them you were sick.”

“Am I fired?” Your voice was blunt despite your nerves.

“No. I told them you had a fever and were vomiting. Too ill to call in. Onslow sends his regards, says he hopes you get well soon. Your next shift is on Monday.”

_ “Gracias, tía.” _

“Don’t worry about it,” she said simply in reply, filling your plate with eggs and sausage. “You can’t do things like this though,  _ pollito _ , you are going to lose your job this way. I can’t always catch you like this, you know.”

“I know.”

“Where were you this week?”

“Hannibal came and--”

“Hannibal? What in the world could you be doing with Hannibal, Murdoc??”

“Don’t worry I’m not in trouble; I swear. He just needed a designated driver.”

“For nearly a week.”

“He needed a ride to Crawley. Maybe further actually, I don’t know. I got us home last night because I was tired of being around him and his friends.”

There was a pause. The toaster popped and the sound made you jump in your seat. You watched your aunt remove the slices and butter them, pondering. Tomato slices were added to the pan of sausage grease to fry for a minute or two, and you sipped your coffee nervously. The sound of popping grease filled your head as you waited for her response, and it wasn’t until the tomatoes were finished and the plates were filled that she spoke again, coming to sit across from you and stirring her black coffee thoughtfully.

“I don’t want you seeing your brother, Murdoc,” she said finally, glancing up at you sternly. You frowned, picking up your fork and knife and slicing into your eggs. The yolk pooled around your plate. Just as you liked it. You dipped your toast into melted gold and sighed.

“I didn’t want to see him either, you know,” you said, taking a bite. You chewed and swallowed before continuing-- “He just showed up, right? Just popped by the house and kinda dragged me along with ’im. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“That worries me even more,” she said, cutting her tomatoes into equal quarters. She always did that and you never really understood why. “I need you to be safe, love. Hannibal is a bad influence. In and out of jail all the time, dealing drugs and god knows what else. I don’t want that for you. I want you to be better. Healthy, successful. He’s bad news.”

“I know what I’m doing,  _ tía _ ,” you replied hurriedly, and you cringed at the tone your voice had taken. It had been far more indignant than you’d been meaning. “I mean, I understand that you’re worried, but you gotta  _ trust _ me, yeah?” You paused for emphasis, eyes pleading. “He’s my brother. I know how to deal with him.”

There was silence again for a moment, and you occupied yourself with your breakfast while you waited. Sophia did the same. You knew she was puzzling over the issue, trying to make things fair. She had always gone out of her way to analyse the rules she gave you to make sure they were reasonable compromises, things you could both agree to. Very few things were completely non-negotiable; a stark contrast to your father’s rules which had always been laws with heavy consequences. You appreciated the effort. It made you feel respected.

“I don’t want him in my house,” Sophia said finally. You glanced up and met her eyes, shocked. “I understand he’s family to you, and I realize you’re an adult now. You can make your own decisions. But I will not have him in my home. Can we agree to that?”

“Absolutely,  _ tía _ ,” you said, setting your fork down and nodding. She considered this briefly.

“And if he does this again, I expect you to let me know what’s going on,” she continued, raising her fork at you pointedly. “Leave me a note or something, Murdoc, and let me know you’re safe. Tell me when I might expect you back. And for the sake of your job, you should do the same for Onslow. Or at least let him know you’ll take a couple days off.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She finished her coffee, popped the last of her toast into her mouth and then carried her plate to the sink. “I’m heading to work now,” she said, rinsing her plate off in soapy water and leaving it to dry on the rack. “I should be home again by nine.”

You nodded, turning your attention back to your breakfast and pondering. You hadn’t expected her to give in so easily, especially over such a touchy subject as your brother. He had never been a particularly large part of your life since coming to live with your aunt, and you knew she thought very little of him. So this was a huge step forward in her trust. A lot of power. You weren’t sure how to react to it. Finishing the last of your sausages and coffee, you stood and walked over to where Sophia was, still bustling around the kitchen and finishing the dishes. You placed your plate and mug in the sink and grabbed a cloth, helping her with the last of the utensils and stacking them to dry. You caught her as she pulled away, leaning down and kissing her forehead.

“ _ Gracias, tía, _ ” you said softly, and she smiled and shushed you, reaching her hand up to tug your face down to her level and kissing you back.

“Don’t make me regret it,” she replied sternly, and you nodded, straightening up. You wiped down the counter as she got her coat and purse, and hugged her goodbye as she headed out the door. And just like that, you were alone again with nothing but time. You gave the kitchen a once over to make sure it was sufficiently clean before heading back up the stairs to your room. Your head was beginning to cloud again; it was getting harder and harder to avoid.  _ (should be on meds, should see a doctor...) _

“Shut it,” you spat aloud, slipping into your room and shutting the door behind you. Safe. You walked to your bed and sat down shakily, processing your location and scanning over your belongings methodically, taking a mental inventory. Posters lined your cream toned walls; Nazareth, The Cure, Queen, and David Bowie glanced at you indifferently from their respective places among a swath of other rock and metal artists you adored. Your turntable sat patiently waiting to be used, surrounded by the records you spent much of your wages on. Cassette tapes and 8tracks made a smaller stack off to the side; present but never centre stage. Vinyl was where it was at, and it always had been. Always would be, you were certain. To the other side of your room was your bookshelf, filled to the brim with a collection of science, psychology and music related text. A bible and hymnal sat on the topmost shelf, a rosary hanging from them for aesthetic purposes. Your bass stood beside your closet door, gleaming in the late morning sunlight. And under your bed, hidden in the shoebox with your whiskey; the one book your aunt could never see…

You rolled over your bed and reached beneath it, dodging dirty socks and sweaters in search of your secret stash. Your fingers found cardboard, and you hauled the box up and onto your bed, flipping the lid open and glancing inside. Amidst unopened boxes of Marlboro cigarettes, pornographic magazines, assorted spirits and a half used sleeve of condoms sat your biggest secret: your tattered paperback copy of  _ The Satanic Bible. _ You picked it up, thumbing over the dirty, dog eared pages with a pounding heart. It never mattered how far away you knew your aunt was, having the book out of hiding was always a rush. You had no idea how she would react to it being in your home, and you never really wanted to find out. As far as Sophia was concerned, you were still vaguely interested in Catholicism; having been forcefully indoctrinated into its lore and practices by your father prior to your mother’s passing. He had marketed it to you as a way of connecting with the foreign and never present half of your family, but you knew from the time you were quite small that this was a ruse. His true intentions were sanctimonious and shallow; he used religion as a means to garner respect from other adults of the Church, a way to disguise his abusive actions. It had tainted the religion in a way you could never forgive.

Exploring theology was your way of taking it back for yourself, and of all the texts you had secretly explored, Satanism, particularly the LaVeyan variety, had stuck with you the most. In the back of your mind you were sure that your fascination with it took root in something deep and bitter within you, a desperate attempt to scorn your father by embracing the antithesis of the religion he’d used to control you, but those were the kinds of thoughts best dulled with beer and indulgence. Which, if the headache coming on could be taken as any indication, you were long overdue for.

You placed the forbidden book back into its box, trading it for your flask of whiskey and taking a deep, healing swig of the pungent liquor. Sighing a hot breath of relief, you fished out a few cigarettes from your box as well and lit one, leaning back in your bed. Your hands trembled as you switched back and forth, a drink, a drag, rinse and repeat; until finally you felt your heart relax in your chest. You went to put something mellow on your turntable, returning to your bed a moment later with your bass in hand and curling up in your blankets with your second smoke. You played along with Dire Straits until your fingers started to slack, and when you flipped the record the third and final time, you walked as if you were in a dream. The stress of the encounter with your brother drained from your blood, replaced with the warmth and security of music and drink. And with the afternoon sun filtering through the last of your smoke, you drifted back into well deserved sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday had come around again. A poorly timed migraine had kept Stu home from school, and right now he was sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and nibbling halfheartedly at the crackers his mother had instructed him to eat. David and Rachel Pot had both gone to work hours ago, leaving Stu with the house to himself. He couldn’t really complain. It was a nice day to stay at home, and there hadn’t been anything particularly important going on at school today anyway. Besides, he had things to do at home, and he’d been waiting for an opportunity to do them without any prying on his mother’s part. If he didn’t do it now, he probably never would.

Blearily, Stu looked across the table to the phone that was hanging on the wall opposite his chair. In his hands, he fidgeted with the paper he had copied Murdoc’s number to, although the imprint of it was still faintly visible on his palm, like some bizarre branding. He had spent enough time staring at it over the weekend to have it memorized by now, but he forgot things so easily… The paper had still seemed for the best, as a fail safe, if nothing else. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, twitching his fingers as he walked to the phone. His throat already seemed to be locking shut - he hated making calls…

Distantly, he heard a thump and the soft padded shuffling of paws along the kitchen floor, stopping beneath him. There was a soft  _ prrrph  _ sort of noise, and he looked down happily to see his father’s orange creme tabby, Jon, sitting at his feet expectantly. Stu clicked his tongue approvingly, and Jon accepted his invitation, hopping up onto the table beneath the phone and snuggling up to Stu promptly, licking the boy’s trembling fingers and brushing his nose against Stu’s nails. Forgetting the phone for the time being, Stu scratched Jon’s ears and listened to the fat tabby purr appreciatively at him, guiding his hands under his jaw to the fluffy white softness of his chest. They stood together like this for a few minutes until Stu felt calm enough to make the call, and he dialed the Stafford number he’d been given with one hand while still petting Jon with the other. The phone rang five times, Stu growing more anxious with each pause, and he was just about to hang up when he heard the other end click. There was a pause, and Stu began to say ‘hello’ when he was spoken over by a familiar voice on the other end.

“Ramos residence, Murdoc speaking,” the voice said. Stu was so excited his tongue froze up, and he let the pause run too long. “... hello??”

“Hi! This is… uh… Stuart. From the keyboard shop? You came in over the weekend and--”

“Oh Christ, Stuart!” the voice crackled excitedly, and Stu beamed. “I was thinking you weren’t going to call, man, I was a bit disappointed! How are you?”

“I’m good, yourself?” Stu asked, relaxing his posture and picking Jon up and snuggling him.

“I’m fine. Just getting ready to head to work. You been thinking about what I said?”

“Yeah, I have been,” Stu said, biting his lip. “I wanted to let you know I’m interested. In what you were saying, I mean. If you’re still looking for a pianist.”

“Actually I am,” Murdoc replied, and his voice seemed clearer somehow. “Still not sure about what’s going on with my brother, but I’d really like to see if we could do something, Stu.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“And I need to have you try out, of course. Gotta hear you play something, you know.”

“Oh, of course!” Stu paused, letting Jon jump down to the floor with a thump. “I was actually thinking - there’s a pub a few blocks from my place here in Crawley with a piano, and I know the guys that run it. I don’t think they’d mind if we stopped by for an audition.”

“That sounds great!” Murdoc interrupted excitedly.

“Do you think maybe Fri--”

“Friday night? Yeah, I can get down there after work. If I could have the name of the place?”

“It’s called The Winchester--”

“Ah! Good! I’ll write that down - I have to go!” Murdoc cut in suddenly, and he sounded panicked. “Call me tomorrow if you need to, okay?”

“Oh, okay! Um, goodbye!” Stu said hurriedly, and the goodbye he received was cut short by the sound of the phone slamming down on its stand, followed by the monotone beeping that signalled the call had been dropped. Awkward. But thrilling all the same! As short as the conversation had been, Stu had done it! And he was extremely proud of himself. Proud enough to warrant ice cream and a movie in the living room, he figured. And Jon could join him too.


End file.
